


An Exploration in Time Travel by a 14th Age Mage

by isthepartyover, JUBE514



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Attempt at Humor, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Humor, M/M, Modern Dorian, Time Travel, With A Twist, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:47:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25983838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isthepartyover/pseuds/isthepartyover, https://archiveofourown.org/users/JUBE514/pseuds/JUBE514
Summary: “Watch yourself.” The Iron Bull says to the Inquisitor, a stage whisper that he knows carries, “The pretty ones are always the worst.”“It’s as the stories say!” Pavus laughs, and there's that genuine flash of emotion again that flits across his face like no true noble of Tevinter would allow. His name is the part, he sounds the part, but somehow nothing is connecting and he’s not acting it, his clothing a strange smear of something that Bull can’t place. He’s not sure even what material some of his garments are, but when the Bull looks over at Varric he can see the dwarf trying to figure it out as well.“What stories?” Bull growls, always the spy.That gets an interesting reaction, Pavus flushes at the same time he turns a pale color underneath his tanned face. “Ah. Spoilers?”--Dorian Pavus is a time traveling modern mage who falls in love with the canon era Iron Bull.
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 20
Kudos: 203





	An Exploration in Time Travel by a 14th Age Mage

**Author's Note:**

> anyway come scream with me about this little side diddy that's a hilarious thought experiment

The Iron Bull first saw the mage when the rag tag crew of Inquisition members stumbled into him fighting a group of his wayward countrymen in Redcliffe. 

Felix’s note told them to please go, secretly as they could, to the Chantry. They had meandered down there and found- 

Well. Bull wasn’t sure  _ exactly _ what they had found at first, but it was sure as shit something to write home about. 

The mage was screaming profanities, both Tevene and Trade, using his thin metal magestaff to beat the hell out of the demons that are swarming the rift. He’s wearing some  _ strange  _ clothing, some tight pants made out of thick, almost broadcloth material and a loose, large coat that went to his midthigh and a shirt with some strange striped design on it. 

Iron Bull had never seen such clothing before, nor had he seen such a  _ magestaff _ before. Tall and thin and with only small focuses attached to one end and a wickedly sharp blade at the other. The metal looked to have something etched onto it, some kind of flowers or some kind of twisting snake, but it was  _ metal _ and that’s what made it stand out amongst all of the lighter wooden ones Bull had seen before. The focus is some kind of shimmering glass but  _ damn _ does the mage know how to use that sharp blade's end. Two quick movements and the opponents that surround the mage are down, dead before they could even gasp in surprise. 

“Are you going to help me?!” The mage screams at them, an accent that sounds like a noble-born Tevinter. “You’re late enough as it is!” 

The battle begins, and Iron Bull gets himself lost in the fight. His blood pounds in his veins and his focus goes only to the enemies in front him, the wicked dance that is played when two opponents go into battle together. 

The enemies die, disgusting things that crawl around on the floor as they lose the light that marks them as being from the fade. Iron Bull looks up from his own kill to get an eyeful of the mage’s ass from those tight pants as the mage uses the blade of his magestaff and shoves it through a demon’s eye socket. 

_ Damn _ . 

The Inquisitor closes the rift, green light stitching itself closed as she holds her hand to it with a look of intense concentration on her small face. Bull puts himself close to her, standing behind just a step as they confront the strange mage again. 

Now that it’s not urgent, Bull can get a good look at him and his strange appearance. 

The mage grabs at his magestaff from the top, just under the glittery purple glass focus, and  _ twists _ his hands in an interesting way. “Fascinating.” The mage is mumbling, voice full of genuine awe, “Never thought I would actually  _ see _ this, just read about it. How does it work, exactly?” The twisting of his hands- if Bull is not mistaken- is making his magestaff  _ shorter _ somehow, pushing the metal into itself and collapsing it smaller. 

_ What the hell? _

“May I ask-” The Inquisitor says before anybody else can start the conversation, “-who might you be?”

“Ah!” The mage seems to go red in the ears, possibly embarrassed? “Well isn’t that the question of the week? I’m Dorian-” The magestaff is finally collapsed to about the size of a hand, the blade sheathed inside and the glittery sparkly glass that’s clearly a focus knocking about like tassels on a noble’s courtroom attire. “Dorian Pavus. How do you do?” 

Bull’s  _ never _ seen a magestaff do that before, and a quick glance around at his allies tell that they’ve never seen anything like that shit either. That’s not good. 

“Watch yourself.” The Iron Bull says to the Inquisitor, a stage whisper that he knows carries, “The pretty ones are always the worst.” 

And isn’t that the kicker? This mage, Dorian, is beautiful. His skin is bronzed and his mustache is cute and well-kept, and his muscles can be seen clearly when he shifts his weight from one leg to the other. He’s got a ring that rests against his upper lip, clearly pierced through his nose, and another metal accessory that clips through one brow. His ears are full of jewelry that glitters like the focus on his magestaff does and his teeth are straight and white. 

“It’s as the stories say!” Pavus laughs, and there's that genuine flash of emotion again that flits across his face like no true noble of Tevinter would allow. His name is the part, he  _ sounds _ the part, but somehow nothing is connecting and he’s not acting it, his clothing a strange smear of something that Bull can’t place. He’s not sure even what  _ material _ some of his garments are, but when the Bull looks over at Varric he can see the dwarf trying to figure it out as well. 

“What stories?” Bull growls, always the spy. 

That gets an interesting reaction, Pavus flushes at the same time he turns a pale color underneath his tanned face. “Ah. Spoilers?” 

Pavus slips his collapsed magestaff into a side-pocket of his bag, clicking in into a metal … hook? Loop? Metal closed circle? Even his bag has interesting things about it, with metal lines that peak out from underneath a leather cover. 

The inquisitor grills Pavus for a bit, asking about if he was the one who gave them the letter to meet him-  _ kind of _ , it turns out- and why was Alexius all over Felix when he feigned a fainting spell. 

Turns out, Felix was dealing with a long lasting illness and Pavus was just a  _ wealth  _ of information. 

Pavus was disjointed in the information he could seemingly  _ give, _ he would spill a plethora of facts when pressed right, but when another question was presented he would clam up tighter than a laced corset. It was completely a crapshoot what questions he could answer- when pressed about Alexius and Felix the answers were halfsure and hesitant, but when it was revealed that Alexuis was involved with the new and fashionable Tevinter  _ cult _ the answers became more sure. 

But, the Bull noticed, suspiciously, the facts that Pavus gave up so willingly sounded rehearsed somehow, like a story long since learned. Pavus recited facts about the Venatori like Bull would recite verses of the Qun to his tamas when he was younger. 

What  _ was _ this strange little mage that stood before them? 

“ _ Time magic? _ ” The Inquisitor asked, voice full of very thinly veiled disbelief. “You can’t be serious.” 

“Deadly so, I’m afraid.” Pavus sighs, crossing his arms and leaning back on his heels. “I know that Alexuis used it to get to Redcliffe before everyone else, a historical magical  _ marvel _ , I’m the only expert on it in the entire world.” 

“I have …  _ many _ questions.” The Inquisitor looks to her team, gesturing to the man in front of her like anybody else on the team could help her. 

“Get in line-” A new voice breaks through the heavy air of confusion. Felix finally joins the party, an exhausted line in his body and a sickly pallor to his dark skin. “Ever since he showed up he’s been producing more questions than he has answers too.” Felix stands beside Pavus, and the very  _ stark _ difference in the fashion between the two just stands out more. 

“That’s a mighty feat,” Pavus says, smiling at Felix, “considering I gave you  _ so many _ answers.” 

“Make you wonder what kinds of questions I might just have then, doesn’t it?” 

Pavus  _ laughs _ , a joyful sound. 

Bull simply cocks his head, listening to the differences between the accents of the two. 

☆:｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆

Iron Bull can’t seem to get a handle on the resident magical researcher. 

He writes to Par Vollen, asking questions about how to proceed, and his superiors answer back to him with question marks and saying that Dorian, of House Pavus, is meant to be  _ dead _ but the mage that Bull describes certainly sounds like the rumors. Par Vollen can say nothing about the strange magestaff, or the strange bag or clothing or  _ anything _ about the man that Iron Bull asks after. His superiors tell him, with no room for loose interpretation, to write down every single twitch of Dorian’s mustache because information they don’t know isn’t something that’s acceptable. 

So Iron Bull simply kicks back and keeps a closer eye on Dorian than the others. 

The Inquisitor seems to have taken a particular shine to him, their supposed time travel trip jarred her enough to make the woman suddenly decide that Dorian needed to be on every trip outside of Haven. 

Dorian had arrived in Haven with the clothing he had first introduced himself in, the strange material and all, but before the day was out he was wearing more recognizable high end Tevinter mage robes. 

Dorian hadn’t looked uncomfortable in them either, like somebody pretending to be a higher class would, he looked perfectly in his element on a stage where the people around him were all performers. 

And that was just it, wasn’t it? 

Dorian was  _ performing _ . Putting on a show. This wasn’t his usual song and dance but he fit the part so  _ well _ that it was clear that it had happened before and Dorian was comfortable in the role he was playing. Iron Bull had seen too many tricks in his trade to be a bad judge at this, so he knew that Dorian was using his real name because he responded to both with immediate instinct. Dorian wasn’t putting on a fake personality because he hadn’t slipped once yet in the role he’s assumed. 

Dorian seemed, well for lack of better word,  _ downright enthusiastic.  _

Besides from that strange collapsing magestaff that he wouldn’t change out, Dorian had seamlessly made himself into the image of runaway Tevinter Altus. His robes were custom made and acquired through various merchants and his palette only yearned for the finer things in life. 

Bull was driving both himself and his superiors in Par Vollen up the wall with madness. There were gaping holes in Dorian’s story, but he filled them so well you almost couldn’t even tell there were holes in the first place. A patched up bad memory of a wall long since repaired. 

Dorian of House Pavus was reported to have died some years previous, after he ran from home and was recaptured, but here he was shining brightly in the middle of the Inquisition with a strange little glass device of magic in one hand and asking the handful of people who didn’t spit on him inane questions about their lives. 

“He asks questions about the weirdest things.” Iron Bull complains to Krem, who’s performing maintenance on his weapons. “Then of course the phrases he uses seem to be downright ridiculous at times-” 

“I’m telling you it's an Atlus thing.” Krem responds with the same phrase he’s been using for the past half hour. “Atlus are strange all ‘round” 

“You ever seen a magestaff do that before?” Bull asks, serious. “ _ I’ve _ sure as shit never seen a magestaff do that before.” 

“I don’t even see the staff nine times out of ten.” Krem says, holding his mace out at arms length to check the shine. “He’s usually not carrying one I didn’t think.”

Bull wants to rip his horns off in frustration. “That’s the thing, Dorian  _ does _ carry his staff everywhere, it’s normally just tucked away at his hip!” 

Krem finally pays full attention to the conversation, sighing. “You say that, but the only thing I ever see on the man’s hip is a bag that holds his journals, that black glass square, and the glass trinket.” 

“Krem the purple glass trinket thing  _ is _ his magestaff, I’ve told you this.”    
  
“And I think you’re full of shit.” Krem responds. “It’s too short to channel magic through.” 

There’s that Tevinter upbringing, Krem knows more passive stuff about magic than Bull ever could. Krem’s been a great unknowing help throughout the years. 

It does bring in a whole ‘nother level to this realm of specialized insanity that Bull is wading through. Krem’s the best source in nearly the entire camp to judge how  _ quote  _ ‘right’  _ unquote  _ Dorian is acting for a Tevinter noble mage, but Krem hasn’t seen Dorian in his strange clothes or heard Dorian say strange things or really interacted with the man at all for more than ten seconds across the courtyards. Krem also is quick to tuck away anything ‘strange’ into the neat little box of expectation like everyone else in this godforsaken place and move on with his life like nothing could ever be the matter with it. 

It makes Bull want to scream. 

He’s even brought it up passively to the Inquisitor, but she very much refuses to acknowledge that Dorian says strange and weird shit constantly, may not be who he says he is, and could potentially be a danger to them all. 

But fuck him for being cautious, right? 

Iron Bull gets the pleasure of getting to know the man on the road, him and the Inquisitor and whoever catches her fancy that week.

It’s mostly Varric, if Bull’s honest. 

The dwarf is a great travel companion for prying information out of Dorian, because Dorian seems to have some kind of ingrained respect for the man which nobody could attribute to anything in particular and when asked about it Dorian just clammed up in that way of his when asked certain questions. 

“You have to tell me, Sparkler-” Varric’s nickname comes from the sparkling glass that  _ clinks  _ together on the focus of Dorian’s magestaff “-how’d you come across a bag like that?” 

Dorian, half asleep by the fireside and leaning against the Inquisitors shoulder, mumbles out an “Dunno? Bought it somewhere. Can’t remember. Might have been ordered from Eluvian?” 

Varric, ever the crafty bastard, doesn’t reach to touch the bag in any way whatsoever. Reaching for Dorian’s bag in the past had the mage reacting by  _ shocking  _ the feeling out of your fingers and yanking the bag close to his chest. If Varric wanted to just talk about it, without drawing attention to it when Dorian was half out of his mind from exhaustion, then Bull wasn’t going to do anything but listen. 

“Oh?” Varric hums, low into his flask. “I’ve always liked bags like that. Might have to get myself one.” 

Dorian hums, nonsensically. Pushing his face farther into the shoulder of the sleeping Inquisitor, the man’s almost to the edge of sweet dreams.

“I’d have to ask you to get me one though.” Varric says, offhanded and easy. “Love to match you with Sparkler.” 

“Don’t use my Prime account, get your  _ own _ .” 

And with that statement, Dorian’s out. He’s curled around the much smaller Inquisitor and sleeping in the way that only a mage can after being dangerously low on mana.

Varric’s face is just a wash of confusion, and the dwarf looks at Bull to try and maybe see if Iron Bull knew anything about the tired statement. All Bull can do is shrug at the man, letting Varric know that Bull knew  _ nothing  _ about this shit. 

☆:｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆

“Eugh!” Dorian lets out a cry from his position of _too fucking close to the things trying to kill him._   
  
“Dorian! Backline!’ Bull shouts over the screaming of Venatori cult members.   
  
Dorian, who was wiping blood off his face and visceral brain matter from his mustache gives Bull a _look_ that Bull can feel from across the battlefield. 

They’ve had this argument before, the two of them. Dorian insists that he’s perfectly fine at positioning himself in fights but Bull’s never seen a mage with such gall before. Mage’s stay  _ behind the fighters _ and they don’t do reckllessly stupid things like, oh yeah,  _ jump in front of warriors to stab demons in the eye. _

The Inquisitor knows to use her magic from behind the wall that the Iron Bull provides, giving Bull barriers and dealing out area damage. Dorian, the crazed man, believes himself able to get right down into the fray alongside Bull and that very much isn’t going to be encouraged. 

Bull’s never seen a mage fight like Dorian does. 

It starts with a  _ sound _ . 

Dorian’s staff makes such a distinctive  _ sound _ when he draws it, giving the compressed state a little bit of toss and instantly the whole staff unravels and the blade at the end is usually already in the throat of the things they’re fighting against. 

Bull’s also used to mage’s who fight with purpose, who have training behind them and can use their magic in battle like Bull uses his axe. Iron Bull is used to disciplined mages who react to situations in predictable manners as beaten into them by the various circles around Thedas. 

Sometimes there's some variance, sure, and mages that don’t have circle training have some kind of guidance somewhere else. 

Bull expects that. He’s dealt with all kinds before. He’s fought against them and from that he has a  _ very _ good grasp on the fighting styles of mages. 

Dorian fights exactly like nobody Bull has ever seen before. 

Dorian fights like a feral man, movements fluid and lose and somewhere a mixture of pure adrenaline and trained in martial arts that mages simply  _ don't  _ get trained in.

Sure, some apostates pick up a thing or two on the road, but none are as  _ comfortable _ in their movements, most predictable and stiff, scared of being caught.

Dorian fights like a man who has practiced and fought and perfected his style, a sort of satisfaction on his face when he makes a kill, like Bull himself feels. But he also fights like he’s not used to having support at his back, like it had been him against the world. He fights with his magic like a warrior, unashamed and pulling from more teachers than The Iron Bull can count with the variances of his movements.

It adds credibility to his story to everyone else, but to Bull, it makes him more suspicious.

☆:｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆

“Come to the tavern with us.” The Iron Bull hands out the invitation to Dorian when he finds the man exactly where people said he would be tucked away in Skyhold. “It’s not good for you to stay up here reading all the time.” 

“Tell that to my fucking dissertation.” Dorian calls back, unthinkingly, from where he’s curled up on the chair he's taken a liking too. 

Iron Bull’s not sure what the hell a  _ dissertation  _ is, but he files it away to ask his spy network and to see if it’s something mage related. 

“Come on, big guy, you’re either going to walk to the tavern yourself or I’m carrying you.” 

This makes Dorian look up, dog-earing his book page in that casual way that tells Bull Dorian’s had enough books in his life to treat them badly. A rich habit, not one somebody of a lower class would ever get caught dead doing. 

“I’m getting up, I’m getting up. Don’t rush me.” Dorian puts the book he was reading- something about the fluctuations in the fade if Bull’s reading the cover right- on the stack beside him and stands. He straightens his robes with a few quick little tugs and gestures for Bull to lead the way. 

The two of them start to meander to the tavern where the rest of the Chargers are hanging about. Varric’s there, along with Sera and the newest addition to the inquisition's inner circle- a young man named Cole. 

Dorian seems fine to walk alongside Bull, partaking in idle chatter but he freezes up when Iron Bull mentions that his Chargers are going to be there. 

“Is my presence welcome then?” Dorian asks, hands going to fiddle with the buckles on his hip. “I know my entering a room tends to go over like a lead balloon.” 

There’s one of those fucking strange little phrases again. Dorian says them so casually, but they don’t  _ mean _ anything significant in any culture Bull’s asked about. Krem’s never heard them before, his superiors on Par Vollen have never heard them before,  _ nobody’s heard them before _ . But Dorian says them like he’ll whisper Tevinter curse words under his breath, like he’s grown up hearing them and it's just a part of his vocabulary. 

“Chow down!” Dorian will cheerfully say at breakfast, gesturing to the food in front of them.    
  


“I’ll be there with bells on.” He’ll say lowly to Vivienne whenever the two of them joke about throwing massive parties for the Inquisition's sake. 

“I just have luck in  _ spades _ !” Dorian will yell exasperated when they’re in the Fallow Mire and he steps into a soft part of the dirt and sinks up to his knees. 

“Blackwall’s a basket-case,” He’ll whisper to Sera across the campfire sometimes, the two of them giggling in a way that means everyone else needs to be extra careful tonight. 

“I’ll assume this conversation is off the record?” Dorian will ask Iron Bull when they’re walking together behind the Inquisitor and Iron Bull asks a friendly jibbing question. 

These little pieces of conversation drive The Iron Bull up the wall with confusion and it just makes Bull put his teeth into this mystery even deeper than he’s already hooked. These aren’t the phrases of a Tevinter mage, these phrases don’t belong to anybody but  _ Dorian _ . 

Until Dorian hangs around enough that his little mannerisms begin to affect the people around him. People pick up on them, and then the Inquisitor is standing in the middle of the war room discussing what to do next and levels Cullen a serious  _ look _ across the table and saying without any hesitation “Stop being fucking  _ salty _ for one second-!” 

☆:｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆

Stitches flicks The Iron Bull in the forehead when he limps in after a training accident with Krem. 

Stitches inspects the wound, a short but deep cut along his outer thigh, the man sighs like the longsuffering doctor he is and gets out the needle and thread in preparation of his namesake. 

“Idiots.” Stitches grumbles, threading the needle with deft fingers. “You’d die without me around.” 

“We would, yes.” Bull admits, not ashamed of that fact. 

Stitches just rolls his eyes and flicks the needle through the candle flame- 

“Why the hell’d you do that?” Iron Bull asks, confused at the action of the man who’s stitched Bull up thousands of times before and never once flashed the needle through fire before. 

The needle pressed through Bull’s thick hide, the hot needle blackened the entrance stitch but slid through the rest of his skin like butter. Stitches worked quick, and the black thread stands out against Bull’s grey thigh, but Stitches still hasn’t answered. 

It takes a moment, a beat of silence when Stitches flicks his needle through the flame again before cleaning it thoroughly on a surprisingly clean rag. “You practice your craft to get better.” Stitches mumbles, like he’s embarrassed, “I can do the same with mine.” 

Iron Bull raises an eyebrow, waiting for Stitches to explain himself. 

“I heard it helps stop infection from even setting in.” Stitches finally mumbles. “Pavus and Dagna have been talking and-”

Exhaling, Stitches jams a finger into Bull’s chest. “Don’t get that face! This is why I didn’t want to tell you! You always get a little weird when anybody mentions Pavus and we get it you have a weird crush on the guy-” 

“ _ Excuse me? _ ” Bull’s never heard of such bullshit in his life. “I don’t have a weird crush on the guy! I’m trying to figure out if he’s who he says he is-” 

Stitches has the balls to laugh in the Iron Bull’s face. 

☆:｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆

They’re sharing a tent. 

Dorian and The Iron Bull are sharing a  _ tent _ . 

This hasn’t happened before, because normally Dorian and the Inquisitor share, and Bull gets put with the other person accompanying them, who’s usually smaller than Dorian and thus allowing Bull more space. 

This expedition’s three members are Dorian, Iron Bull, and  _ Cole _ . 

Cole, who doesn’t sleep. Cole, the spirit who doesn’t need a tent. Cole, who’s all gangly limbs and smiles and tells everybody what you're thinking when you stand too close. 

The Inquisitor kicked everybody out of her own tent, saying that she's a  _ lady _ damn it, and she’s going to get some privacy and Dorian and Bull won’t you share please? 

Dorian’s sleeping, soundly on his stomach and curled around a pillow that’s tucked into his left side. 

It’s the perfect opportunity to be less than dignified. 

The Iron Bull, as quietly as he can, reaches for the two bag’s they’ve left at the door, grabs Dorian’s, and slips outside. 

Bull sits by the dying fire, using the light of the almost full moon to see what he’s doing. 

The bag itself doesn’t draw the eye initionaly, it’s only when you take a good glance at it does the appearance draw some question marks. There’s a flip cover, but once you unhook the two buckles there's a metal  _ thing _ that Dorian once referred to as a  _ zipper _ that are in various different locations on the leather bag. The  _ zippers _ are metal and shiny and open easily when Iron Bull takes one of the tabs and gently begins to pull. 

The smallest pocket is in the very front, and the  _ zipper _ reveals the secretive insides. 

There's only a handful of items in the very front pocket. 

A  [ handkerchief ](https://www.coltercousa.com/shop/stargazer-bandana) , but not one that's monogrammed silk. It’s made of durable material, black, and across its surface is a starmap of Thedas. The stars are laid out in stark white with directions on how to navigate using them, what certain stars are called, and which ones are in what time of year. The white isn’t embroidered into the fabric, but almost like it was written on with some kind of material Bull can’t name. 

There’s a couple of small, thin tubes of brightly colored something’s that have writing all over them. When Iron Bull takes the time to read one it says ‘ _ Peppermint Lip Balm’ _ . There’s directions written on them in the smallest type Bull’s ever seen in the neatest printed lettering on anything by  _ far _ . Bull pops the little cap and takes a smell, it certainly does smell like peppermint doesn't it? Bull decides in a fit of fancy to use some, and  _ wow _ Dorian has been holding out on all of them if he has such an effective balm in such a portable little bottle like this. 

The real winner of the front pocket is the folded expensive leather that can’t be anything but a wallet. The wallet has another one of the  _ zippers _ on it, and it’s another easy tug to unravel his prize. There's a gathering of what Bull can only assume is some kind of strange cloth-paper money based on the numbers printed on them. Digging deeper reveals coin, but thin as a nail and without any recognition to any region Bull’s familiar with. There’s slots in the leather that hold thin rectangular strips of material- there's six of these unfamiliar things and they’re not metal or cloth or organic but they somehow have aspects of all three at once. They each say Dorian M. Pavus and have a series of numbers written out in raised lettering- which Bull memorizes in case it’s a code- but other than some abstract designs the collection doesn’t show anything of interest. 

The  _ real _ find is when the wallet first falls open- there's a small image of Dorian himself that stares back with a slight smile. The thing is trapped behind something clear, but Bull can read the large TEVINTER that sits carefully atop of Dorian’s full color bust, as well as the heading of DRIVER’S LICENSE.

It’s like a spy’s wet dream. 

Name, first and last. Residency. Sex. Eye Color. Height. Weight. Signature. 

There were some strange dates, along with a random jumble of lettering that Iron Bull can’t figure out. The dates on this little license are impossible, strange and far into the future and out of the  _ age _ . Dob 14:21-I? Exp 14:52-I? Iss 14:42-I? What the hell did the word  _ dob _ mean? Why are these dates wrong? So wrong?  _ Centuries _ worth of wrong? They were in the age of  _ Dragon _ , which is the ninth age, so all these dates should start with nine but even then it’s only been a handful of decades since the start of this age has begun, not fifty years. 

Iron Bull moves on to the next pocket, putting everything back where it belongs. 

The next pocket has writing utensils, those quick little things that everyone’s seen Dorian use before even though he tries to be discrete about it. It also has three journals, stuffed to the brim with that cramped sideways scholar handwriting that Dorian writes in. 

Those don’t interest Iron Bull, he’s looked over them before when Dorian’s writing in them and it's just full of research notes. 

There’s a [ strange little thing ](https://www.chmarket.pl/image/cache/catalog/imported/5af65045955dc62c1763c720-original-720x720.jpg) that has a very  _ colorful _ pattern across it’s thin surface, with the words ‘ _ Mage Charger _ ’ etched almost invisible into the sides. There are two rectangular holes at the bottom once a little flip door is opened, there's some metal in those holes but Iron Bull can’t see the point of them. This isn’t any kind of Lyrium, so Bull just has to take a physical description of it and come back to it later? There’s a white wire wrapped around it, with two strange little ends. One end is much smaller than the other, and the larger end is a metal rectangle- 

Wait a minute. 

Feeling like a toddler, Iron Bull takes the larger metal end and slips it into the rectangular hole on the bottom and- 

It fits. It clicks in perfectly with almost no effort. 

There’s a bright little blip of light that flashes near the bottom- three out of six circles are lit up with white light. 

Iron Bull immediately undoes the wire, noting the reaction of the device and the fact that it clearly attaches to another device that isn’t in this pocket at all. 

Bull goes for the third and final  _ zipper _ , the one that leads into the main pocket of the bag, when he hears a very pointed humming from across the dying fire. 

Startling out of his own goddamn  _ skin _ , Iron Bull whips around to face whoever it is with a defense already on the tip of his tongue- 

It’s Cole. 

Cole’s sitting there, legs crossed in front of him like a child would and hands clenching at the edges of his large hat. “Iron Bull, that’s not yours.” 

“I’m curious.” It’s best to be entirely truthful with Cole, the kid can read his mind and would not hesitate to rip the truth from his clutches if Bull had lied. 

“That’s Dorian’s,  _ bright and big and reminding him of his home _ .” Cole’s voice is soft and musical, fitting into the sounds of the spring nights around him. “ _ It’s his things, needed to be kept away and needed to be kept out of hands not his _ . Spoilers, he tells me,  _ Spoilers _ .” 

Cole might be strange and weird and slightly out of touch with the reality around him, but Cole’s also magical in a base way that Iron Bull might be able to play to his advantage. 

“Hey, kid-” 

Cole jumps up, standing from his criss-crossed position within moments because of the downright unnatural grace that possesses him. “You need help?” 

“Yeah.” Bull smiles, trying to calm down the fluttering excitement of the kid across the fire from him. “Yeah I do need some help, if you want to try and help me.” 

☆:｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆

Cole slips into people’s personal space like nobody else ever could hope to. He’s a spirit in the skin of a regular boy and when you notice him beside you it’s already too late. He makes Iron Bull uneasy, the latent magic that Cole uses can sometimes be felt if he lets you remember the feeling of him touching your thoughts. 

Iron Bull walks beside the Inquisitor, stepping alongside her on the narrow road to put Dorian and Cole side by side behind them. 

Dorian clearly doesn’t mind the spirit, even likes the little guy to the same strange degree he respects Varric. Cole takes the same kind of shine to Dorian as he does Varric most of the time, meaning that Varric and Dorian can politely ask Cole not to read their minds and he doesn’t. 

At least, not out loud. 

Everyone else isn’t up to that kind of friendship with the demon for some reason, and Bull’s thoughts are going to always be passively read and sometimes occasionally talked aloud by Cole’s mindless behaviour. 

“It’s not  _ mindless _ .” Cole huffs from behind the Inquisitors back, interrupting Dorian’s complaining. “It’s how we were all made.” 

“Oh?” The Inquisitor doesn’t turn, but she does do an interesting little bob in her walk. “Is somebody poking fun at you Cole?” 

“No ma’am.” Cole answers, brightly happy that he has friends to ask after his well being like that. “Not malicious thoughts,  _ not on purpose, magic is something to be wary of, can’t be trusted, seen a thousands ways for it to go wrong _ -” 

“ _ Thank _ you, little guy.” Iron Bull stops him there. “For trying to not single me out.” 

“I said no names.” Cole says.

“You didn’t have too.” Iron Bull answers. “Sometimes a person can imply something without saying anything at all.” 

“You would know?” Dorian quips, reaching out and tapping Iron Bull quick on the back in jest. “Is that something you learned from your spy training?” 

Hook, line, sinker. Cole’s nearly vibrating out of his own skin, and while Bull pushes the thoughts of uncontrollable demons out of his mind he turns fully and throws a  _ wicked _ smirk at Dorian’s way. “I learned a little bit in my spy training, as you put it, but I learned a lot more about it from  _ you _ .” 

Dorian’s face goes that strange white underneath his tan, the gleam of gold on his piercings just make the pallor worse. “I’m not sure what you mean.” Dorian objects, huffing. 

“ _ Did he figure it out _ ?” Cole whispers, whip quick, “ _ Nobody can know, it’s not safe, this magic is unstable and hard to control. I can’t let it spillover more than it already has.”  _

“Cole.” Dorian has stopped walking. “Cole cease talking at this  _ instant _ .” 

“ _ Such a sweet boy, Cole. Lived too long and lived too hard and all his information is scattered and hard to sort through. Good citation when he’s available but he’s hard to get a hold of nowadays.”  _ Cole’s eyes are wide and watery, The Iron Bull is watching Dorian’s shoulders tense up more and more. “ _ Wearing the face of a child long dead, a relic from a different Age. Researchers used him up long ago but Cole still has words to say. Important to my doctorate, Important to my research. This could synergize with the Redcliffe time bubble that faded Ages ago-”  _

Dorian slams his hand onto Cole’s mouth, shutting the spirit up physically. 

☆:｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆

The Iron Bull decides,  _ fuck it _ . 

He’s seeing all of the pieces of the picture, but he can’t get a look at the whole image. He’s looked at it from all the angles he could but Bull might just think that all of this unexplained shit was Dorian messing with some kind of crazed magic that if the Inquisitor doesn’t care about then Bull’s not going to care about either. Iron Bull’s superiors in Par Vollen are sick and tired of Bull giving them information that can’t be figured out, so they’re simply asking him to _solve it_ _before you talk to us about it again_. 

Bull decides he’s going to have a grand time hanging out with Dorian without the mystery hanging over his head and if it gets solved then it gets solved. 

( _ Magic? What kind? His specialization is necromancy but nothing in necromancy makes sense-) _

Ignoring it! Bull is going to drink with his Chargers and have a good time! 

_ (Charger, like the one that sits in Dorian’s bag, unknown device and unknown use. Unknown things that have purposes that Iron Bull doesn’t know-)  _

Sigh. 

☆:｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆

Dorian’s at the tavern with everyone, eyes dark as he takes a long sip of the terrible beer. 

He’s looking at his card, splayed out in his hands, and he raises. 

Varric laughs, the cheating bastard, and raises again. 

Blackwall throws his cards down, “ _ Cheating bastards. _ ” the man sighs deeply. “I can’t believe I play when I only come and lose money.” 

“Speak for yourself.” The Inquisitor says, smile wide as her and Sera share cards. “I come to watch Varric clean everyone out.” 

Sera laughs, a giggle that's more drunken slur than anything coherent. 

Cassandra’s here to laugh at the people who lose money when Varric or Dorian decides they want to cheat, and she’s having a grand time. She’s only played one or two rounds total, and she’s broken even on the night. 

Cole’s here, leaning against Bull and humming a strange little up-down-up song that he’s probably pulling from somebody’s head. 

Iron Bull himself folded two rounds ago, and now is just drinking with the rest of them and catching Dorian’s gaze every now and again. 

Dorian looks fantastic in this light, the dark low of the candles of the bar long after most people left. His skin’s dark and almost blends into the shadows when he turns and gives his attention to another. His blue eyes- pale during the day- are blown out with the size of his pupils as he takes in the room. God he’s  _ beautiful _ . 

Shame, that mages are crazed and aren’t usually willing to jump into bed with a Qunari. 

Dorian catches the Iron Bull’s gaze again, flicking his gaze to Bull’s mouth before folding his hand. 

☆:｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆

Iron Bull catches himself flirting with Dorian on the battlefield.

It wouldn’t have been a huge deal if Dorian didn’t  _ flirt back _ . 

Bull wasn’t used to people who could- and would- match him blow for blow. Dorian is a mixture of a blushing maiden and the whore of Babylon, when he gets flirted with he’ll flush red and  _ beg your pardon _ and stutter through his answer if there’s people around. When there’s  _ not _ people around Dorian will cock his hip and make filthy gestures and tell Iron Bull in a low voice exactly how he’d blow the Bull’s fucking mind.

It all comes to a head when they get back from galavanting around the mountains hunting for some scrap of information or another and they celebrate being alive by getting sloshed in the tavern. Dorian laces his fingers through Bull’s under the table and squeezes them twice before letting go. 

Bull loudly announces that he’s going to bed, getting up and making a show of stretching and flexing. He walks slowly to his room, one foot in front of the other with a roundabout meandering path. 

He gets to his door the same time Dorian show’s up in the hallway. 

Iron Bull kisses Dorian hard and hot- grabbing at his hips and squeezing them to leave reminders in the morning. Dorian grabs Bull’s horns and  _ twists _ , his legs wrapping around Bull’s hips the two of them make their way towards the bed. 

Dorian’s flexibility when he pulls his magerobes off is something downright impressive, but Bull sees,  _ smells _ , how it affects Dorian when The Iron Bull snaps some buckles in his haste to help undress the prettiest person Bull might have ever seen. 

“I’ve read-” Dorian kisses Bull, tracing Iron Bull’s canines with his tongue, “I’ve read that something like this happened once.” 

Iron Bull smiles, slow and languid. “Did you? Read about a torrid affair between a Qunari warrior and a Tevinter mage in a filthy romance that you got secretly in one of your circles?” 

Dorian  _ laughs _ , breathlessly against Bull’s neck as he shifts so their hips align. “Not a dramatic dimestore novel I’m afraid, something much more boring.” 

Bull catches Dorian’s mouth again, pausing a moment to fall into one another completely. “Oh?” Iron Bull asks, “What kind of books are you reading then?” 

A smirk, dark and dangerous and sending a thrill up Bull’s spine. “The only kind of books I read, darling, tend to be  _ Historical _ .” 

☆:｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆

The thing is.

The thing is that all of Bull’s watching, studying,  _ noticing _ had made him more aware of Dorian than anyone else in Skyhold, including his Chargers. And once they start sleeping together, Bull finds himself going out of his way to make Dorian smile.

A meal, here and there, brought up to his cozy little alcove during lunch when Dorian is too caught up in his research.

Little trinkets, statuettes and little Tevinter charms that the boss usually sells as junk, but Dorian eyes with an envious glint in his eye, surreptitiously slipped from the main pack and appearing again in Dorian’s room upon return to Skyhold.

Bull goes even as far as gathering up the pieces of Dorian’s staff blade after it had broken off against the armored hide of a Pride demon, something that had made Dorian’s face twist in concealed sorrow, and made Bull have an urge to do something to fix it.

He brings the pieces to Harritt and Dagna, asks them to repair it, and both of their eyes light up with glee.

The next week, Bull just happens to be watching as Dagna hands Dorian a bundle of cloth, bouncing excitedly until the cloth had fallen away and reveals the blade, just as wickedly sharp and unique as before, but the broken pieces now joined together with a shining energy, a Tevinter technique that Dagna begins babbling about the intricacies of.

Dorian’s eyes find Bull’s, and the soft, almost shy smile Bull is given makes him feel like he could and would do anything, just to see that look again.

☆:｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆

Dorian’s tucked away on the armaments, looking down at Bull and his Chargers doing drills. 

Iron Bull knows he’s there because he can smell Dorian’s still sleepy early morning scent. There’s the smell of that foul drink he tends to make in his rooms curling around his softer base smell of sleep sweat and lavender oil. Iron Bull knows that Dorian has a few cups of the bitter smelling dark brew every morning- sometimes a few late at night- from the lingering smell. 

Bull hits Krem a little harder than normal, laying Krem flat on his back in a way that normally Iron Bull wouldn’t bother with in a real fight. 

“Dramatic asshole.” Krem hisses with what's left of his air, laying on the group and looking at the sky. “Where’s the mage you’re showing off to?” 

“Think I need to be showing off to put you on the ground?” Bull asks, helping Krem back up. 

Krem rolls his shoulder, popping audibly enough that Skinner and Dalish make a disgusted face from where they’re watching. Iron Bull takes a moment to glance up, scan across the wall to see if he can catch sight of Dorian bracketed by the morning light. 

It takes a moment, but Iron Bull spots the man leaning on the wall overlooking the courtyard and chatting with the Inquisitor. From where Bull’s standing, the morning sun cuts through Dorian’s hair and makes the man just breathtaking. He’s wearing a simple robe, with a jacket that Bull hasn’t really seen before but it’s oddly familiar. There’s that cup in one hand, still steaming from Dorian’s fire spell, and in the other he’s fiddling with the black glass rectangle that he carries with him nearly everywhere. 

Krem takes over drills at a single motion of Bull’s wrist, calling Skinner over and getting ready to go through drills. Iron Bull begins to wonder right underneath where Dorian is leaning, letting himself get right up under the man. 

“DORIAN!” Bull screams up the wall, from right under the man. “DO YOU WANT YOUR LITTLE RED NUMBER BACK? YOU LEFT IT IN MY ROOM LAST NIGHT-” 

Dorian, the poor bastard, startled so hard at the scream of his name that the only thing that saved him from taking a twenty foot tumble over the wall and onto the sharp horns of The Iron Bull is the Inquisitor grabbing his belt and pulling back with all her might. 

The  _ very _ hot dark bitter drink and the glass black square wasn't so lucky. 

Bull takes the almost boiling water to the head, the tankard slamming its metal edge into the soft spot where his horn just begins to jut out of his head and  _ motherfucker ow ow ow.  _ The little black glass rectangle manages to just miss The Iron Bull’s head- instead landing flat on his pectoral. 

“Your coffee!” The Inquisitor is saying, looking down at Bull and casting some ice to try and help the burn that’s already setting in. 

“ _ My phone! _ ” Dorian’s voice is  _ distraught _ . 

Assuming the  _ phone _ was the black slate of glass, then it didn’t seem damaged at all. Bull’s chest took most of that hit for it. Ignoring the icicles that have formed on his horn from the now frozen  _ coffee _ \- which was a feat, by the way, like leaving ice on sensitive teeth- Bull picks up the black glass slate and checks it over. No cracks, no dents. Iron Bull flips the thing over, using his other hand to crack off the ice. 

Woah! The black glass  _ lit up _ . 

There’s a picture of Bull himself- mid-battle and full brillant color as flame’s curl around his feet. It’s so  _ real _ and lifelike and captured just like a still moment from their lives. There’s also the time, down to the minute, along with a date. There’s some other little symbols, but Bull can’t decipher them right away. 

There’s a padlock, with the words ‘Face ID Not Recognized’ right underneath it. 

“Bull!” Dorian’s leaning too far over the edge of the wall, too far considering he almost went over it twenty seconds ago and the Inquisitor was trying to pull him back. “Bull does my phone still work?!” 

Bull’s never heard that kind of broken desperation in Dorian before. Dorian’s sounded sad certainly, but this sounded like something more. Dorian’s voice was trembling with tears and that’s something Bull can’t stand. 

“It lit up!” Bull calls up to them. “There's, uh, a picture of me?” 

Dorian goes  _ red _ , his face flaming with embarrassment that it was  _ that  _ particular fact was the one to be yelled so early in the morning. “Does it have a crack in it?” 

“None I can see.” Bull holds the  _ phone _ up, showing the picture side up towards Dorian’s position. “I’ll bring it up? Get away from the edge.” 

Dorian nods, and leans away from the wall and into the insistent tugs of the Inquisitor. 

Iron Bull begins to make his way to the armaments, talking holding two hands very securely over the  _ phone _ . He takes a little bit of time to inspect the object as he’s walking. On the side that the image doesn’t appear on, there's a few circles that Bull doesn’t know the purpose of, but he’s sure they’re important. One of the circles is pure white, and one is just pure black, but the other handful have various things underneath smooth glass that look a little like  _ eyes.  _ There’s a soft symbol that Bull doesn’t recognize but other than that nothing appears to be wrong. The side with the image is much more interesting, there's nothing but smooth glass and Bull doesn’t want to accidentally set off any magic so he doesn’t touch anything, just holds the  _ phone _ in his flat palms. There’s a few raised blips on the sides, but they do appear to be built into the thing, not flaws, so Bull can only guess at what they do. There's a small thin hole at the bottom, he can see metal on the inside.

Dorian greets him on the stairs, thanking Iron Bull by taking the  _ phone _ out of his hands, inspecting it quickly, then stashing the  _ phone _ in the bag he keeps on his hip. When Dorian’s hands are free he loops his hands around Bull’s neck, pulling Bull into a deep and extremely thorough kiss. 

Dorian tastes and smells like that bitter morning drink of his, but The Iron Bull doesn’t mind. 

☆:｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆

Bull knocks on the door of Dorian’s rooms. 

It’s no secret that Dorian and the Inquisitor went to see somebody together, coming back worse for the wear. The Inquisitor’s fuming mad- flipping from kicking the shit out of the training dummies screaming profanities at the sky to crying silently in her rooms while somebody tries to comfort her. 

Dorian’s thrown himself into the library with a force that’s unrivaled by anybody else in Skyhold. 

Dorian’s been forced out for the first time in about three days by Helisma, the woman saying that Dorian’s no use to her when he falls asleep standing up and propped against the shelves, or collapsing from hunger because he doesn’t leave to even  _ eat _ . 

The Iron Bull’s decided that he’s going to offer a shoulder, his chest, his lap, whatever Dorian needs to help him get through whatever has affected him this badly. 

_ (Bull’s spies tell him that there was a letter delivered that was meant for Dorian to go somewhere to meet up with a family retainer, but this isn’t the kind of devastation that comes up from a cordial meeting between retainers.)  _

A filthy swear, deep and groggy in that flowy language that Tevinter has, “ _One moment please!”_   
  


Iron Bull waits patiently as sleepy footsteps plod around the room, quickening as they wander away from the bed. Shit, Bull didn’t think that Dorian would already be asleep. Dorian had protested so much as he was dragged away from his little alcove that Bull was sure he was still reading in his quarters. 

There's a terse minute where Iron Bull think’s maybe he should leave, let Dorian sleep. 

Before Iron Bull can decide the door opens. 

Dorian looks, for lack of a better word,  _ wrecked. _

No makeup, bags under his eyes from where the lack of sleep has bruised his sockets, hair mussed up from his fingers raking through it, the smell of overworked and overtired, stale sweat from lack of self care and horrible emotions that wracked through Dorian’s body. He’s out of the mage robes he’s usually seen in, and wearing what’s clearly his bedroom comfortable clothes underneath a loose blanket thrown over his shoulders.

Dorian tries a winning smile, but it misses its mark but a mile. “I don’t think I’m up for anything tonight Bull.” 

“I wasn’t here for,” The Iron Bull pauses a moment, collecting his words, “I wasn’t here for sex, I came to try and help.” 

Dorian looks Bull up and down, assessing with a tired mind. Bull tires to stand straighter, look more open to conversation and not about to do crazed bedroom things with a man who’s all but dead on his feet. 

Dorian moves to the side, allowing Bull into his space. 

His room isn’t anything amazing, just another tucked away in this twisting castle. It has a window that faces the sunset and a bed that has a few blankets piled on. There's the little trinkets that Bull saved for him littered around his single bookshelf, tucked around the book’s he’s squirreled away up here. The fire is blazing even though it’s not night yet- keeping the room warmer than Bull would naturally. There’s some interesting little additions that catch his eye, like one of those blankets looks to be quilted a little strangely- with one of those  _ zippers _ curving around the edge- and how on the small table by the chairs the device that Dorian called a  _ phone _ is connected to the strange colorful object that Bull had found in his bag called a  _ Mage Charger _ by that white chord. The phone sits on a flat metallic grey tablet with various little pictures splattered across it, right next to a glass. 

Dorian strides across the room and rummages through his dresser, he pulls out a bottle of whisky from the bottom drawer. 

Okay. Bull can deal with some drunk confessions. 

“Pour me a glass, will you?” Dorian asks, handing Bull the whiskey and the glass on the little table by the chairs. “I only have one cup- so we’ll have to share one way or the other but I want to at least  _ pretend _ we have some class before we devolve into barbarians.” 

Dorian sits heavy, pulling his knees to his chest and tucking his feet into the wedge of space near the armrest. He reaches over and grabs the  _ Mage Charger _ and slots his fingers around it, touching small metallic dots. The hum of magic wakes and shuffles into the air, just enough to fill Dorian’s palm. 

The little device blinks the white dots on the bottom, then the  _ phone _ makes a  _ bzzt  _ sound. 

Dorian doesn’t react to any of this, just keeps his tired eyes on the glass that Bull hands over after he gets a generous finger width of liquid in there. 

They don’t talk, not right out the gate. If they tried to make small talk they were both too good at directing the conversation away from what’s bothering them and they’d just circle about nothing until Dorian passed out. 

So Iron Bull waits, swirling the liquid in the bottle and watching Dorian as he drinks. 

“I met Halward Pavus at a bar in Redcliffe.” 

Bull is too good of a spy to show any outward emotion. Simply takes another hard swig of liquor and keeps his shoulders from tensing. Iron Bull could say so many things, but he refuses to yank down a man who’s already at rock bottom. 

Dorian holds out his glass, Bull pours him some whiskey. 

Iron Bull’s not good at the whole  _ family _ thing, he grew up without a traditional one and mostly his advice is to Krem and it's along the lines of ‘ _ punch them in the face _ ’. Dorian doesn’t look like he wants to hear generic or vague advice, Dorian looks like he wants to crawl into his bed and die for a few days. 

“I assume it wasn’t a friendly family reunion then.” 

Dorian takes a second, but he laughs. The laugh is dirty, filthy and full of scabbed over pain that’s been picked at and pulled open. “No, I’m afraid not.”

From where Bull sits, the way Dorian leans into his chair makes the blanket he’s draped over his shoulders like a cape slip just enough that Iron Bull can take a peek inside at the sleeping clothes Dorian was wearing. 

The way Dorian’s legs rest against his chest, ankles crossing on the chair, make it so that Bull’s eyes draw across the interesting smalls that Iron Bull’s seen once or twice before on the road when Dorian was caught off-guard in a tent. The smalls look soft, with a pattern of stripes and pressed close to his leg like it was a second skin. 

“Do you want me to offer solutions, or simply be supportive?” Iron Bull asks. 

Dorian shifts in his chair again, that blanket sliding a little lower. He hums, bringing his hands together to press against his mouth and consider the options. Dorian’s hands have tan lines from where his rings normally sit, the thin bands draw the eye when those fingers dance as he contemplates. 

“I’m not sure, honestly.” Dorian admits. “If you just sit there and nod along to my woes I do believe I would be mad at you and your gorgeous mind for not offering anything to my plight. But If you try and offer me advice I think I would lose the final thread of my incredibly shaky control.” 

Dorian sighs, deeply. 

“I think, the best course of action, is for me to finally go to sleep. I’m going to rest and I’m going to see how I feel in the morning.” 

Dorian finally unravels himself, grabbing the blanket and re-covering his shoulders and his sleep clothes. 

Bull stands to leave, to allow Dorian his space to figure out what he wants and what he needs. 

Dorian grabs Bull’s wrist, and asks gently if Bull would keep him company, perfectly platonically, through the night. 

☆:｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆

The Iron Bull wakes up, cracking his eye open at the movement in the bed. 

It’s still too early for most people to be awake, the sun’s not going to come above the horizon for another hour and some change. The only reason Bull woke up at all was that Dorian had laid himself across Bull’s chest. 

What a unique experience, whenever they’ve done this in the past they’ve both been naked and it was in Bull’s room, or a shared tent. Dorian’s room without the fire looks different when the man himself is quiet and tucked into Bull’s arms, it seems much more empty. 

Dorian’s blankets have slipped down to his waist, and the shirt that Dorian’s wearing has some kind of strange text on it. There’s not enough light for Bull to read it, but the shirt sleeves are short, just peeking over the curve of Dorian’s shoulders and the uneven tan from his mage robes show through. The material feels like a soft cotton, worn with age and time, and when Dorian mumbles something and burrows deeper into Bull the blankets fall further and Bull’s eyes adjust to the dark and he gets to see the back of his shirt with more clarity. 

It’s just a list of names, printed in incredibly small letters to fit the hundreds of people. The top of the list has some kind of title, but the shirt’s crinkled and the only words that Bull can make out are ‘- _ tosus Straits Swim Cha _ -’. 

Wait a second. 

_ Wait a second _ . 

Making an educated guess, Iron Bull can figure out the  _ Ventosus Straits _ . The channel between Tevinter Imperium and  _ Seheron. _

Bull reaches down, gently tugging the shirt straight so that, yeah, Dorian’s soft cotton shirt with hundreds of names has danced across the top the huge title  _ Ventosus Straits Swim Challenge _ , with the swirling smaller words underneath that read  _ 125th Annual Seheron to Qarinus Race _ . 

It all falls into place. 

Seheron, that damned island, was only a place of bloodshed and hurt. There’s no room on it for anything like this thin little shirt promises, a simple race amongst hundreds of people. Bull reads all kinds of names on it, names like  _ Dorian Pavus _ that have a small yellow star pressed over it, names that Bull recognizes as belonging to Quinari, names that are only used by elves or dwarfs or humans. Hundreds and hundreds of people gathered to, apparently, swim from the small burnt out capital of a shitty battle torn island to a nest of Magisters and racism. 

It would never happen. 

Never happen  _ in the present time. _

How could Bull have been so  _ blind _ ? Dorian said it when he first showed up to the party, the man they fought against and have captured and bound used  _ time magic _ . 

The dates on that little slip in his wallet, those are the time that Dorian hails from- it's got to be. It  _ has _ to be. 

_ Five centuries _ . Dorian is from  _ five hundred years _ into the future. 

The question that stands out most in his mind is  _ why _ . 

The next questions, buried under the pure revelation of  _ time travel _ is how the  _ fuck _ is Iron Bull going to disguise this information from his superiors on Par Vollen. They can’t know about this, or they would demand Bull to lock Dorian down and bring the bas-saarebas to them so they can make sure the ability to  _ time travel _ never got back to the Tevinter Imperium-

Gods- Dorian isn’t  _ from _ this version of the Tevinter Imperium is he? He’s from Tevinter- if that slip of informative ‘ _ drivers license _ ’ is to be believed- but that’s obvious by just looking at the man. Dorian would never be able to claim another heritage-

Which brings  _ more and more questions _ . 

Bull sighs, deep and echoing in his chest. This makes Dorian grumble, his pillows moving too much. 

“Dorian.” Bull needs to have this conversation and he needs to have it right now. “Dorian I have a few questions for you.” 

“Can they wait until I’m awake?” Dorian asks, smashing his face deeper into Bull’s pectorals. 

“Why were you so affected by Halward of House Pavus if he isn’t your actual father?” 

Iron Bull feels Dorian tense against him, instantly freezing mid-inhale. Bull makes sure not to trap Dorian in his arms, trapping a panicking mage is the last thing Iron Bull wants to happen here. Trapping a panicking mage who knows moves from  _ five centuries in the future _ is really what Iron Bull doesn’t want to happen right now. Dorina needs his room to breathe, needs to know that Iron Bull isn’t going to lash him down and demand answers. 

“... If I pretended I didn’t know what you were saying, would you allow me that lie?” 

Dorian sounds so soft, so broken, that Iron Bull almost says  _ yes _ .

But a  _ yes _ would just stall them both out, make it so that their whole relationship fell apart at the seams because of the soft feel-good lies between them. It would be an insult to either of them to lie like that. 

Dorian sighs, knowing that he needs to explain things. The mage sits up, balancing by splaying his hands on Bull’s chest and leveling his torso upright. “Before I tell you anything- tell me what you know. Before you  _ ‘hem’  _ and  _ ‘haw’  _ you need to understand I’m in a precarious position and can’t allow just anybody to know everything.” 

Makes sense to Iron Bull. “Your shirt-” 

“ _ My shirt?! _ ” Dorian looks down, surprised, using one hand to pull it taunt to read the front. The front just has the same  _ Ventosus Straits Swim Challenge  _ written above a colorful stylized image of what Bull assumes is many people swimming. “My fucking  _ nightshirt  _ is what gave me away? Truly?” 

“The names on the back.” Iron Bull admits. “They helped me put together everything that didn’t make much sense.” 

Dorian huffs, but he smiles through the sound. “Of course they did, what did you manage to figure out about this poor little Atlus?” 

“You were born in the fourteenth age, weren’t you?” 

Bull catches Dorian when he allows himself to fall onto Bull’s chest. Dorian’s lean body curling into the warm expanse of skin. “The Inquisitor already is aware of it, but it feels  _ wonderful _ to know I’m not lying to you anymore.” 

The confirmation makes something in Bull’s chest twist a strange way. “Lying?” 

“I’m not actually Dorian of House Pavus you know.” Dorian says, “I’m Dorian Pavus, a mage born in the Information Age who’s doctorate is in magical sciences and has a concentration in historical magic. There was a  _ real _ Dorian of House Pavus, I was named for my several timed-great granduncle after all, but I’m not him.” 

“Par Vollen told me you were dead.” Iron Bull breathes, the words almost pulled from him. “When you first arrived and I wrote to them about you- they told me Dorian of House Pavus was thought to be dead.” 

“Can you believe that somehow the fates aligned and my father was just as horrible as his?” Dorian’s smiling and laughing from where he’s curled into the Iron Bull, but the tone of his voice has an undercurrent of deep scars. “I met the man, in that tavern in Redcliffe, and he told me to stop  _ pretending  _ to be his son. He told me that Dorian of House Pavus had unfortunately passed away several years ago, and no matter how much I might look like him I  _ wasn’t _ . I told him to fuck off, I know what he had done, I’ve read my families dark horrible histories and I  _ know _ he killed his firstborn son by a bloodmagic ritual.” 

  
“Oh god. Dorian I’m sorry.” 

“Ancient history, for some of us.” Dorian says, but his grip is tight where he holds onto Iron Bull. “I only know that your real Dorian of House Pavus died because I went looking into why my own father tried something similar on  _ me _ .” 

It’s not very sane for The Iron Bull to hate a man who isn’t even born yet- but The Iron Bull manages anyway. That’s why Dorian was terrible after the meeting with Halward of House Pavus, the man had torn open scars that have healed over bad, the man was the one who made the ritual that only  _ one  _ Dorian managed to escape from. 

Horrible, god awful. This is why Iron Bull hates mages. Most mages. 

“Another question.” Bull says.    
  


Dorian sighs, but says “Shoot.” 

“Are you named after the original Dorian Pavus- or yourself?” 

The mood lightens immedality, Dorian taking a moment of stunned silence before he  _ laughs _ .

☆:｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆

It’s not until a day later that Iron Bull even self reflects on the immediate internal response to protect Dorian from his home country. Bull didn’t even flinch in his resolution to not tell his superiors about his knowledge. Iron bull’s fallen for Dorian in a way that overrides something deeply ingrained within him. 

Iron Bull pushes that aside, pushes that thought deep within him and tries not to think about the fact he might be in this a little too far. 

☆:｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆

“Did you flirt back with me because you read it in a history book?” Iron Bull asks, genuinely curious while they're walking on the road behind the Inquisitor and next to Cole. 

“Surprisingly, no.” Dorian snorts a decidedly un-nobel like sound. “I flirted with you because I  _ very much _ have a type.”

This makes Iron Bull think for a moment. Considering. “Is your type historically accurate?” 

Dorian responded to that comment by flushing red to his  _ ears _ . 

☆:｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆

The Inquisitor now gets to talk to Iron Bull about their shared knowledge. She chatters about her time in the future, about how  _ fast _ and how  _ dangerous _ and how  _ ripped apart _ it was. It wasn’t Dorian’s true future- where they all succeeded in defeating the bad guy and lived more or less happily ever after- but a future twisted by defeat and red lyrium. Dorian had taken pictures, taken samples, and explained to her why she needed to wear new clothes so they blended in. 

The Inquisitor and Iron Bull like to poke fun at Dorian’s little future devices. The  _ phone _ that holds onto thousands of  _ photographs _ that Dorian will sometimes take a moment to go forward to send to his colleagues and to his huge collection so that when he has time he gets to write papers about them all. The  _ computer _ that holds  _ movies _ that Dorian will place onto his lap and allow the two of them to watch while he doesn’t explain any of the new technology in them. The  _ computer _ also has thousands of pages of Dorian’s experiences, and Bull will watch Dorian type late at night, watch the words just spring forth so much faster than Bull could ever pen. 

Sometimes those little future devices come in handy, like the  _ sleeping bag _ during chilly nights in tents. Bull appreciates that people in the future know how to camp in style. There’s  _ sleeping pads _ that inflate within seconds and allow you to sleep on clouds.  _ Coffee _ that Dorian’s gotten the Inquisitor addicted to that jacks up their energy artificially and whenever Bull smells it he knows they’re nearby. Dorian’s equipment is lighter, easier to pack down, and when he gifts the Inquisitor a retractable magestaff of her own she nearly bowls him over in her excitement. 

“I knew that retractable magestaff’s were made during this age,” He laughs, “And I  _ knew _ that Dorian of House Pavus and the Inquisitor used them and introduced them to the higher class, I just didn’t know that  _ I _ was the one to do it.“

Dorian tells them very little of what the future holds, keeps citing the word  _ spoilers _ with that little airy voice of his. He’ll admit the smaller things, the things that hold no meaning to them, but anything larger than a minor daily habit of his he’s tight lipped about. 

Dorian is the same as always, his public persona is something that is  _ him _ at the core of it all. Dorian appears snobbish with his food because he’s used to something else. He’s for the want of finer things because he grew up with so much  _ more _ than what this Age can provide. Dorian reads like a monster, but when the Inquisitor asks if Dorian already knew the answer to what happened why did he need to know all this extra stuff? 

“Historical documents aren’t in great shape.” Dorian admits to them both when they’re by the fireside at a camp. “I don’t know  _ everything _ that happened here, I’m doing research because I need to find the solution in the texts available here that have been lost to time by the Information Age. I’m documenting everything I can, taking picture after picture of the pages that are in the library, but the solution to the problem I’ve been tasked with solving isn’t something that’s survived to my era.” 

“So you have to figure it out all over again? Because clearly you’ve figured it out before.” The Inquisitor scrunches her nose, the logistics of time travel can be confusing. 

Dorian just smiles that wicked smile of his and says “Sort of, darling, sort of.” 

☆:｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆

The Iron Bull blows the horn. 

The Chargers live to see another day. 

Bull screams at Dorian, later on when the both of them are in Skyhold and somewhere far away from prying eyes. Screams and yells and crumples onto the floor in huge heaving sobs that his whole identity has been pulled away,  _ ripped away _ , into nothing but a  _ tal-vashoth _ destined for madness.

Why didn’t Dorian warn him? Why didn’t the man- his fucking  _ kadan _ \- warn him that his actions were spirlaing him towards his own people abandoning him. Why didn’t he try harder? Why didn’t Iron Bull catch himself? Why when Iron Bull thought tratorious thoughts he didn’t ask anybody to beat them out of him?

_ Why? _

Bull buries his face into the arms of his  _ kadan _ , his throat torn apart by his sobs, and asks Dorian why didn’t the man warn him that this was going to happen?

Dorian grabs onto Bull’s horns, bringing Iron Bull within kissing distance and softly pressing their lips together. 

Dorian tells Bull that history is nebulous, in a state of change whenever Dorian does  _ anything _ in here. Each moment is a moment in and of itself happening continuously in the moment it exists. There’s so few points that won’t ever change, static and stationary in the fabric of time itself. Dorian can change the minds of the people around him with time and effort and constant questioning, but Dorian cannot change a person’s  _ heart _ . 

The Iron Bull always was going to blow the horn and save the people that he loves. There’s not a universe that makes it as far as  _ 14 _ where the Iron Bull didn’t save his team. 

☆:｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆

Dorian wears a necklace that is fashioned from a tooth. 

He keeps it above his robes, it bounces whenever Dorian casts magic. 

Iron Bull paints a new design into his  _ vitaar _ , anybody who knows Dorian can connect it to him in a heartbeat, but it’s obscure enough that it passes as just a simplistic design to the passerby. 

Dorian blushes up to his ears, and he changes the  _ photographs _ on his devices to images of them together. Dorian writes page after page on the Iron Bull and his chargers to bring to the future with him on those small little trips. Dorian slips brightly colored jars of  _ vitaar _ into Bull’s pack- bright  _ neon _ colors that mean Bull is the brightest, biggest, and  _ pinkest _ thing on the battlefield. 

Iron Bull gives his heart to an amazing man, an amazing mage, and a person who’s smart enough to stably travel over _ five centuries _ . 

Dorian gives his own heart right back. 

☆:｡･:*:･ﾟ’★,｡･:*:･ﾟ’☆

  
  



End file.
